Start of Something New
by WinterSky101
Summary: An angel and a demon meet up with coinciding orders from their respective superiors. Considering it doesn't really make sense for them to work against each other while they're aiming for the same thing, they call a tentative truce. Or, the birth of an arrangement that hasn't yet had the chance to gain a capital A.


**Oops I'm writing Good Omens fanfiction now.**

 **Yes, the title is a reference to the High School Musical song. No, I am not ashamed.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens.**

* * *

 ** _Somewhere in Eastern Europe, 1016_**

Aziraphale no longer fights with a flaming sword. Heaven has infinite divine mercy, but that doesn't quite reach to the point of giving him another flaming sword to replace the one he, er…lost. He fights with a flame-free sword now, although it still is soaked in ethereal power. He carries a dagger as well, also divine in nature. Whoever thought angels were sweet, fat cherubs must have skimmed through the majority of the Old Testament; when it wants to be, Heaven is absolutely brutal.

Crowley, on the other hand, fights with whatever weapon he happens to have on hand. He's fought with spears, daggers, throwing knives, morning stars (he thought himself to be so hilariously ironic), and pretty much any other sort of weapon one could conceive of.

As the heavy mace in his hand swings towards Aziraphale's extended wing, already pressed up against the wall behind him, Aziraphale decides that the mace is probably his least favorite of Crowley's weapons.

The metal slams into the fragile bones of Aziraphale's wing and he _screams_ , a sound that humans can't consciously hear but feel somewhere deep in their soul. Crowley takes the opportunity to wrestle Aziraphale's sword out of his hand, tossing it away quickly before the divine metal burns his hand.

"I could kill you right now," he hisses, his snake eyes bright even in the darkness of the alley. His mace is positioned in the perfect place to crush the bones of Aziraphale's skull, if he swings it just right.

"And I could kill you, serpent," Aziraphale retorts, his dagger pressed against Crowley's abdomen. With an upwards thrust, he'd pierce the lungs and - if he's lucky - the heart as well. It's slower than Crowley's method, and there'll probably be time for the mace to swing before Crowley discorporates, but Aziraphale's orders are to stop Crowley by any means necessary, and he believes his own discorporation falls into that category.

Crowley looks down at the knife, surprise evident on his face. Then he huffs out an unexpected laugh, and Aziraphale's not quite sure what he's supposed to do. He could thrust the knife up and end this, but he's killed Crowley so often in the past five thousand years, and he's not all that enthused with the idea of doing it again. Anyway, he's always thought that the demon could be interesting to talk to, if he got to know him better. And his orders were only to _stop_ Crowley, and even though "kill" was heavily implied in that, it wasn't stated outright. Talking to Crowley is temporarily stopping him by distracting him from tempting people. Technically.

"Did you ever think that we could be allies?" Crowley asks. Aziraphale tenses. He's not entirely pleased with the way this is going. He knows how simple it is for an angel to fall. Crowley himself is evidence enough of that - Aziraphale remembers him from before the fall, the angel Gadreel, who spent too much time among Lucifer and his fellows to remain in Heaven. Aziraphale does not wish to fall.

"How could I work with you?" Aziraphale demands, forcing himself to sound angry instead of confused. It'll do him no good if Crowley thinks he's gone soft. Their amicable time together back in Eden did its damage back five thousand years ago - Aziraphale foolishly believed that their quasi-friendship could remain, which led to a few inconvenient discorporations before he realized that their conversations apparently meant nothing to Crowley. He's not about to make a similar mistake. "I ought to kill you right now."

"Can you?" Crowley asks, and before Aziraphale can do anything to stop him, he grabs a handful of Aziraphale's broken wing. The pain threatens to make Aziraphale's knees buckle as he screams again, only barely keeping a grip on his knife. His hand shakes; he presses the knife more firmly against Crowley's abdomen to steady it.

"I'd say we've reached something of an impasse," Crowley states, seemingly unconcerned by the knife against his tunic. If that thin layer were gone, the divine metal would be burning through Crowley's skin. Aziraphale can't help but be glad the tunic is there; he finds both the sight and smell of demon flesh burning to be repulsive. "Look, what exactly is your mission from Heaven?"

"I'm not sure I should tell you that," Aziraphale replies cautiously. He can't imagine his superiors will be pleased.

"Mine are to prevent any treaty between Henry and Bolesław, to keep the fighting going," Crowley offers, far more freely than Aziraphale would have expected. "I'm guessing you're supposed to push for a treaty?"

"Er." Aziraphale avoids Crowley's eyes. "Not quite."

"You're supposed to stop a treaty as well?" Crowley asks, his eyes wide. Aziraphale shrugs and immediately regrets it when pain radiates through his broken wing.

"I'm supposed to help the Holy Roman Empire win the war. If the treaty is in their favor, then it's acceptable. If not, I've been instructed to thwart the treaty and continue to aid Henry."

"And since this treaty is more likely to help Bolesław…"

"It's not acceptable by Heaven's standards," Aziraphale finishes. Suddenly worried, he adds, "You're not going to tell your superiors this, are you?"

"As long as you don't tell your superiors about Hell's plans," Crowley replies easily. "Anyway, we're on the same side, aren't we?" Aziraphale eyes him suspiciously. "We're both supposed to stop this treaty," Crowley elaborates. "Shouldn't we be working together or something?"

"I don't think Heaven would approve of me working with a demon, even if our orders coincide," Aziraphale replies slowly. The idea, he must admit, is a bit appealing to him. He won't say it aloud; he knows better than to give Crowley hope like that. Demons are crafty, and Crowley is no exception.

"Heaven doesn't need to know," Crowley replies, shrugging. "I'm not going to tell Hell."

"You're suggesting I lie to Heaven?" Aziraphale demands, affronted at the thought. "I will do no such thing!"

"I wasn't suggesting _lying_ ," Crowley corrects. "I was more thinking that you could maybe just not mention it."

"So lying by omission, then," Aziraphale replies frostily. Crowley sighs.

"Look, at least we can at least work together on this treaty, right? Or at least not interfere with each other? We are working towards the same goal, after all."

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment. But his wing hurts, and he's in no mood to continue fighting with Crowley, so perhaps they can just agree to not interfere with each other. After all, Crowley is working for the same thing he is, so it can't be _too_ wrong.

"Do what you will to stop the treaty, and I will do my part. I won't stop you if you don't stop me," Aziraphale states. Crowley steps back, beaming, his yellow eyes bright. He flicks his wrist and the mace in his hand disappears. Aziraphale cautiously picks up his sword and sheaths it, putting away his dagger as well. Crowley shakes his head as he looks at Aziraphale's wings.

"You ought to groom your wings more often," he tells him. Aziraphale bristles; Crowley's just broken half the bones in his wing, and now he's tell him that his wings look messy? "I could help you with that," Crowley adds. Aziraphale scoffs.

"I'm not going to fall for that temptation," he shoots back. "Anyway, we have this little…arrangement, but it's temporary. Only until the truce is stopped."

"Whatever you say," Crowley replies, saluting lazily. He turns and strolls off down an alleyway, leaving Aziraphale behind him.

He must have more faith in this temporary truce than Aziraphale does, since he doesn't even seem to guard his back.

* * *

 ** _Somewhere in Eastern Europe, 1018_**

"Fancy seeing you again," Crowley says, grinning at Aziraphale as they circle each other, each holding out their weapons. Aziraphale has his sword and dagger, while Crowley has a macuahuitl. "What are your orders on this treaty? Thwart it, since Bolesław is winning?"

"Are yours the same?" Aziraphale asks. Crowley nods.

"Seems a bit ridiculous to me, though," he adds. "Hasn't this war gone on long enough? It's been, what, sixteen years? That's about half a lifetime for these humans, isn't it?"

"I don't understand why it can't end either," Aziraphale admits. "But I'll do as Heaven tells me," he adds quickly. "My orders are to prevent this treaty and help the Holy Roman Empire win this war, and I will follow them."

"You know," Crowley says slowly, "I have orders to prevent this treaty. But I also have standing orders to make things difficult for you and go against Heaven's will. I think those trump any other orders."

"I have standing orders to thwart you and stop the influence of Hell," Aziraphale offers. He thinks he's starting to see what Crowley's saying. "Are you suggesting we should be fighting each other to stop either of us from interfering right now?"

"Why fight?" Crowley asks, shrugging and dematerializing his macuahuitl. Aziraphale is not so quick to lower his sword.

"What would you say we do instead?" he counters warily. Crowley grins widely.

"There's a little inn not far from here. The food is decent, the beer much better. Would you be interested?"

"Are you asking me to dinner?" Aziraphale asks, confused. Crowley shrugs.

"I figure we need to keep an eye on each other, to make sure that neither of us is allowed to interfere with the treaty. I wouldn't want you enforcing Heaven's will, and you don't want me spreading Hell's influence, do you?" Aziraphale shakes his head. "Meaning, if I go to this inn for some food, you'd better come with me. To make sure I don't sneak away and do something evil."

"And you won't be able to leave either, because you don't want me to go about thwarting wrongdoings," Aziraphale adds, understanding the balance Crowley's proposing. "I think this could work."

Crowley surprises him by throwing an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. "Shall we, then?" he asks. Aziraphale stows his sword and dagger and allows himself to be led off into the direction of the inn.

"You know, angel," Crowley says (and the word "angel" sounds shocking like a pet name or something of the sort, although he's only calling Aziraphale what he is), "perhaps this arrangement of ours could become a little more permanent."

"I don't think I'd mind that," Aziraphale replies slowly.

When Crowley smiles, Aziraphale is almost able to forget that he Fell.

* * *

 **Some historical facts: the war referenced in this fic is the German-Polish War of 1002-1018. The war was between the Holy Roman Emperor Henry II and the Polish ruler Bolesław I. There was an attempt at negotiations to end it in 1016; they failed. The Peace of Bautzen, which ended the war in 1018, was more in favor of the Polish, although the Holy Roman Empire did gain some territory as well. Considering Crowley says in Good Omens that the Arrangement began sometime around 1020, I chose this war as a background for it.**


End file.
